by S. Massery
“Oh, my god, Charlie.” He stops talking, then, and I realize he is crying. The choking noises he makes break my heart. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I left you with him. I’m sorry I made you seem like a prize to him. I just wanted to keep you safe, I didn’t think—”
“Stop.” I’m crying, too. “It isn’t your fault, Jared.”
“I should’ve known he was going to go after you. He was fucking obsessed—”
I keep saying his name until he stops talking. Until he listens to me. Lightly, I say, “I’m okay now. Right? I sound okay?”
“You sound like you’re doing okay, Charlie,” he murmurs. “Your boyfriend is good to you?”
I hesitate, but I don’t know why. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s good.”
“Good. Good, Charlie, that’s good.” I think he’s searching for a way to change the subject. I am curious about his child, and why he hasn’t mentioned it, but I hold my tongue. My heart rate is slow and steady again by the time Jared asks, “Why did you ask about my therapist?”
I rub at my eyes and suppress a yawn. It’s nearly eleven. “I saw one, too, is all. I’m kind of surprised, since you were so put together.”
He has so many different laughs; I could spend a lifetime cataloging them. This one rings false. “Oh, Charlie, you have no idea. But I think we’re both too tired for this conversation.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“Do me a favor?”
I nod, realize he can’t see me, and say that I will.
“Forgive your boyfriend for trying to help you out of your rut.”
Coming from him, it sounds doable. A mountain, but a manageable one.
“I will,” I promise. “Thanks for calling.”
“Anytime.”
34
Past
I sat in the car with my dad, glaring at the building he expected me to go into by myself. I should not have been surprised that he still had ridiculous expectations, even after everything. I felt like shit; I had only been discharged from the hospital two days ago.
“Come on, Charlie,” my father said. He didn’t usually call me anything except Charlotte. I constantly wondered if he’d let go of his anger over my lies, over Colby, or if he pushed it so far down I couldn’t detect it. “This is the first step in moving forward. Talk to someone.”
See, the thing was, I had gotten so used to silence. I had become accustomed to not having a voice. He wanted me to talk to a therapist? I didn’t have any words to give. I turned my glare on him, but he just raised his eyebrows. He was used to this new attitude of mine, and he wasn’t putting up with it. He just ignored it. “Go,” he said. “Talk. Take your life back.”
Take your life back.
Colby had really done a number.
I had this dark, ugly part of me that yearned for the drugs he had fed me. I wanted to be that numb again. I wanted to be that… far away from reality. It was only when I woke up sober, after a terrible time in a private hospital, detoxing, that I realized how medicated I had been. That scared me to no end. The police took a statement from me—in which, out of fear, I barely said anything. Colby going away or Colby coming back sent me into a panic. I didn’t like either option, because didn’t I love him? Didn’t love mean forever?
I didn’t want to love Colby forever.
“Kid,” Dad said, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, because he hadn’t called me that since I was seven, “you let him mess with your head. Go fix it.”
I took a deep breath. I supposed I could go in and sit for an hour; I could kill sixty minutes. I could pretend, for Dad, that I was okay. I didn’t want to lose this supportive side of him; it so rarely emerged. In my imagination, I leaned over and hugged him. I hadn’t been able to tolerate touch since the night the police took Colby away, but I desperately wished I could show my dad the appreciation he deserved. The idea of his arms around me locked up my muscles.
I settled for grimacing at him. I got out of the car.
35
Since the Thanksgiving fiasco and ensuing arguments, I’ve done my best to be extra nice to Avery. I apologized and conceded that I might be in a rut, to use Jared’s words. We eventually got back on track, but it took just long enough that Avery made plans to go home to California without me.
In a perverse, self-sabotaging sort of way, it was relieving to know that I wouldn’t have to impress his family. He had charmed mine so readily; I didn’t, and still don’t, have faith in myself to do the same. Why should his parents like me? Sometimes I’m not even sure if Avery likes me. We just pick at each other until one of us bleeds.
Why do I only know love associated with pain?
Someday, maybe Avery and I will be celebrating our first Christmas together. A cozy apartment, Christmas lights and ornaments on a tree, sharing a meal and thoughtful presents… Do I want that? At what point do you decide you’d rather spend the holiday with the person you’re dating over your family? At what point do you claim, He’s my family, now, and relegate your parents to those who you’ll visit later in the day, or later in the week? Taking that plunge is commitment. Celebrating a holiday with someone you not only love, but are in love with, is a whole new adventure.
Avery and I aren’t there yet. Rationally, I know this. But I picture all the Christmases we will have in front of us, and a lump forms in my throat. I want to start now. I want to grab our future and make it a solid road ahead of us. I only wish I had realized that before I got in my own way. Holidays bring out the worst in me.
Georgia is my savior.
“Come visit me,” she told me one night on the phone.
I missed my best friend, I missed Chicago, and the plane tickets weren’t too outrageous. I was moving apartments at the beginning of January, but I was already mostly packed. It was decided. I called my parents from the airport; they thought I had to work most of the holiday week and wouldn’t be able to spare time to visit my father’s brothers in Florida. There was a heated phone call debate between my dad and I; he insisted that if I was feeling left out, I should just come to them for a few days. And then my mother had taken the phone from him and tried to guilt trip me.
“Mom,” I said, just yesterday morning, “the ticket is bought. Georgia is really looking forward to seeing me.”
“We would look forward to seeing you!” she cried.
“I’m sorry,” I told her.
But I was also relieved to escape.
On the plane, a kid turned around in his seat and looked at me with huge eyes. He smiled a nearly-toothless grin, and I felt nothing. As a female, automatically enrolled in the destiny of having kids, I realized right then that I didn’t really like them. I tried to shake off that feeling. It unsettled me too much. There was so much expectation riding on me. I didn’t usually feel the brunt of it: marry a good guy, have 2.5 babies, be the perfect wife, have a perfect job. Staring at this child made me want to run away and never return.
When did that happen? When did I suddenly decide that this life wasn’t for me?
An overwhelming urge to scream washed over me, a bubbling inferno in my belly. There is a lot in life that we don’t get to choose: we don’t get to pick our parents or how they raise us. We don’t get to choose who harms us, who loves us, or where life eventually takes us. As a kid, I went with the flow. Jared led; I followed. My parents ordered; I complied. Colby demanded; I shut my eyes and gave him whatever he wanted. Now that I’m growing a backbone, people don’t like it. I just need to wait for the perfect time to make a decision about who to be. Right now, I can’t do anything besides tell myself: I don’t want kids.
That alone is liberating until I remember that I’ll have to break that news to my parents.
I close my eyes and sleep the whole way to Chicago.
Georgia and I spent Christmas Eve wandering around our old Chicago favorites. We took pictures in front of the giant Christmas tree, and drank cocoa overlooking the river. There was no one else except us in our universe.
“How’s
Henry?” I asked at one point.
She smiled, her eyes glossing over in happiness. I grinned. It warmed my heart to see her that way. “He’s going to come over tomorrow afternoon,” she answered. “I wanted you two to spend some time together, since…”
“Since it’s getting serious?”
She blushed. “Yes.”
I grabbed her hand. “I’m looking forward to it.”
We wake up to a white Christmas. Swaddled in blankets, Georgia and I exchange presents and sip coffee. For the first time in a while, I feel an acute sense of homesickness. When Georgia stands up to make breakfast, I call my parents.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come down,” I whisper to my mom. It’s the first time we haven’t been together for Christmas. “I miss you.”
“Oh, Charlotte,” she says. “We miss you, too! We’ll see you soon. Just stay safe, yes?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Charlotte,” my father says. Mom must’ve passed off the phone to him. “Merry Christmas.”
“You, too.”
“We’ll see you for dinner in a few weeks, if the weather allows.”
I exhale a shaky breath. That eases the ache: I’ll see them soon. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, girl.”
Georgia delivers me Mickey Mouse pancakes with a chocolate chip smile. “Are you okay?” she asks as she sits next to me. “Your cheeks are all blotchy.”
“I’m good.” I look at her closer. “How do you feel? This isn’t the first Christmas you’ve spent away from home. Does it get easier?”
She grimaces. “No. It sucks. But that just means I’m extra happy that you’re here.”
The rest of the morning passes quickly. I break open the new sketch pad and charcoal pencils Georgia gave me, practicing with a focus that I haven’t felt in a long time. I get lost in it until my best friend says, “You better shower. Henry will be here in an hour.”
I put on nicer clothes and fidget in the entryway to the kitchen. Georgia has been preparing dinner for an hour. Her cooking skills are undeniably delicious, but it’s making me nervous. “I’ve already met him,” I say. “So I shouldn’t feel anxious about this.”
Georgia shoots me a smile. “He’s nervous, too.”
I blink. “Why?”
She laughs. “Because he wants to make a good impression. You’re my forever, dummy. He knows that.”
My eyes fill with tears. I’ve been Niagara Falls with how much I’ve cried this year. “Wow,” I mutter. “Thanks for ruining my eye makeup.”
She comes over and pats my shoulder. “You okay?”
“I just have something in my eye. A tree branch, maybe.”
“That’s an outdated joke,” she tells me.
I chuckle.
“See? You’ll be okay.”
My life would be drastically different without Georgia. She found me toward the middle of our first semester of college, when I was nearly drowning under the weight of peer pressure. In college, it’s easy to find drugs and alcohol. I had promised my parents and Dr. Sayer that I would stay clean. To them, I was something akin to a drug addict: a wild girl with a wicked impulse for drugs. I suppose that they were right. It took so much energy to concentrate on things other than pills and alcohol. I knew that I didn’t want to end up in a state that would leave me vulnerable. I didn’t ever want what happened with Colby to happen again. For that reason, I isolated myself. I was terrified of letting a guy into my life, and I was having shit luck making friends. Everyone wanted to party. No one wanted to watch movies and binge on popcorn and milk duds on a Friday night.
One night, Georgia stumbled upon me in the dorm bathroom. Someone had left a bottle of vodka on a shelf near the showers, and I was staring at it. I willed myself to move away, but a desperate part of me wanted to forget everything for a night. I wasn’t settling in; I had no friends and it was already the middle of October.
She walked in and ignored me at first, but on her way out she stopped and looked at me.
“You okay?” she asked.
I managed to nod. She could probably see the sweat on my forehead.
“I’m Georgia. My roommate is at some party, and I was just about to watch a movie.” She smiled when I met her eyes. “Want to join?”
I nodded again.
The following Monday, she sat next to me in one of my classes. I hadn’t noticed that she was in it. She gave me a small smile and said, “Never would’ve imagined myself sitting in the front like you. Do you have to avoid eye contact so the professor doesn’t call on you?”
After that, I wasn’t quite alone. I had successfully made my first friend.
I learned that she was just as lonely as me. Her parents were both alumni of the university, so it was practically written in stone that she would be accepted and attending. But just because her parents came before her didn’t mean that she was guaranteed success—the opposite, in fact. Students sneered at her for being a legacy, and professors didn’t want to show favoritism, so they were harder on her. That night in the bathroom, she was just as desperate for someone to save her as I was.
That made me feel a little better.
Over the course of the next four years, I told her my life story. She was horrified over Colby and miserable for me about Jared. She slowly glued me back together. In turn, I got her story: she was the forgotten middle child of three growing up, until her older brother was hit by a car and broke his back. Suddenly, with her brother in a coma, her parents looked to her to be the “perfect” child to carry on their legacy. Maybe they didn’t mean for that to be so cold, but that’s what it was.
We were more similar than we originally knew. When I told Georgia that she saved me from picking up that vodka bottle and drinking myself into a stupor that night—upending years of therapy—she cried. She admitted that she had been contemplating dropping out of school, running away to work in Texas or California.
“He’s here,” Georgia tells me now. She sets down her phone and moves to the door to let him in. “Breathe, Charlie.”
I smile at her.
He looks just as I remember, except a smidgen older. A little more comfortable. He’s always been pretty, with his Ken-doll hair and jawline. He grins at me. “Nice to see you again, Charlie.”
I let myself relax. “Nice to see you, too.” We shake hands, which feels awkward. We laugh. Way back when they first started dating—when Georgia and I lived together—I would watch out the window as Georgia would meet him on the street. They were cute; he would smile shyly, and she would light up. It’s the same now: he looks at her like he’s never seen anything so beautiful, and she only has eyes for him.
That’s what love is supposed to look like.
“Merry Christmas, baby,” Georgia says. She kisses him, and I look away. “Ignore her uncomfortable face,” she whispers to him.
I snort. “I didn’t have an uncomfortable face.”
Henry shakes his head. “Sorry, Charlie. You kind of look ready to combust.”
It’s easier to walk away than to tell them, I haven’t looked at Avery that way in months. So I do walk away. I allow myself a momentary time out in the bathroom to gather my thoughts. When I come back out, everything feels more comfortable.
After dinner, we sit on the floor around her coffee table and play card games. “I’m happy for you guys,” I tell them. “Henry, I’m glad you came into Georgia’s life.”
Georgia swipes at a tear. “Shut up, Charlie.”
Henry nudges her. “I just got a compliment out of the Ice Queen—no offense, Charlie—and you want her to stop talking?” He grins at me. “I was convinced you hated me.”
In the space of time when Georgia and I lived together and they dated, Henry and I hadn’t had much interaction. His nickname makes me shake my head. “Me? I’m the Ice Queen? I mean… I’m not that cold, am I?” I can’t tell how I feel about it. I take a sip of my wine and purse my lips.
Georgia starts laughing. “He mentioned the
Ice Queen once but I had no idea who he was talking about. You were talking about Charlie?”
He shrugs. “Sorry! It was a nickname that just stuck. But I never meant it in a bad way, Charlie. It was just a good way to describe your personality to my friends.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s fine. It’s kind of badass.”
Georgia snorts.
“So, what are you two ladies going to do tomorrow? It’s your last day, right?”
I nod. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, but I leave the day after.”
“Have you heard from Avery?” Georgia asks. I don’t know why she brings it up, but my face falls. “Oh,” she mutters.
“I emailed him this morning,” I tell her. “But…” Nothing.
His silence shouldn’t surprise me. As the day went on, I made up excuse after excuse: he’s spending the day with his family, not attached to his phone. He might’ve broke his phone, or saw it and forgot to reply. Maybe his message got stuck in the outbox of his email. He could’ve forgot to hit send. Maybe—
I shake my head to stop the thoughts. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. We’re just… figuring it out still, you know?”
“You’ve only been dating for six months?”
I blink. “Has it been that short? It feels like more than a year,” I say with a laugh.
Georgia and Henry exchange a glance. “A good year? Or a…”
I scowl at her. “It’s been a fine six months.”
“With a lot of arguments.” Henry frowns at Georgia’s tone. She adds, “And a lot of tears.”
“Stop.”
She puts her hands up in surrender. “It’s the truth. You just need to keep hearing it…”
Perhaps Henry senses my mood darkening, because he lays down his hand of cards and says, “Let’s have dessert.”
